Capitulation

I stare at the array of items in front of me: my father’s Glock, my prescription bottle of hydrocodone, a package of razors I bought last week, and even a dusty bit of rope I found in the neighbor’s garage, though it’s nowhere near long enough. It’s not like I have a place to hang myself from, anyway. The scene deserves a chuckle, it’s so ridiculously cliché.

But there’s nothing funny about this. And it’s been so long since I’ve smiled.

I used to. Smile, that is. Even though the depression was always a weight on my chest—some days it was damn near impossible to breathe—I still managed to grin and bear it. Maybe that’s why no one ever really understood; why they still don’t.

Why she doesn’t.

Will she have any regrets when I’m gone? I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure I really believe it. More likely she’ll be happy she has one less thing to worry about. Not as much stress on her plate.

She has no idea what stress is. None of them do.

The pain’s bad—fibromyalgia’s a bitch, after all—so I go ahead and pop a pill. Just one for now. It’s not quite time to swallow them all. The cold water burns going down. I wince, then cough and sputter. I take another gulp, trying to calm the irritation in my throat. My eyes water, but I can breathe again. I lean back and wait for the meds to kick in.

My phone pings at me. I pick it up, swipe the screen. It’s a text message from James.

“Hey. How you doing?”

I’m getting ready to off myself; that’s how I’m doing. I set the phone back down, knowing I won’t type those words. If I did, he’d try and stop me because unlike her, James actually cares about me. We’ve been friends for a couple of years now. I’m not sure how it’s worked out, seeing as he’s married, and I have no one in my life romantically at present. I used to, but Rick wasn’t up to dealing with my issues. Not after … But I don’t want to think about that just yet. I don’t blame him. Hell, it looks like even I’m not up to dealing with my shit anymore. But James—and his wife, for that matter—they watch out for me, and they’d be absolutely horrified if they had any inkling of what I’m about to do.

The phone goes off again.

“Hey, you okay?”

It’s not like me to not answer. I know that, and so does he. If I don’t respond, he’ll get worried. But what can I say? I’m not okay. And if I tell him I’m not okay, he’ll want to talk, and I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m sick of talking. I just want to be done.

I’m feeling slightly drowsy, but the pain’s still getting through, so I grab the prescription bottle and shake out another pill. It goes down easier than the first one.

After a minute, I get up and dig out a notebook and pen from my desk. I should write a note. It’s customary. Expected. They’ll look for a note—something that says goodbye, or at the very least provides some sort of explanation for my actions. They’ll want to know.

She’ll want to know.

I open the notebook, uncap the pen. A surge of fury washes over me, and I hurl the items at the wall. No. Fuck her. Fuck all of them. If they’re only going to give a damn once I’m dead, maybe they should have given one sooner. Maybe she should have tried a little harder to understand, to be a little less judgmental.

Tears prick my eyes, and I sink back down on my bed. Everything’s still sitting on my nightstand, all lined up in a pretty row. I reach out, grab hold of the gun. It’s loaded, the rounds already racked. There’s no question of whether I’ll use it; it’s more a matter of when and how. You’d be amazed at how many failed suicides come out of people shooting themselves. I certainly was when I researched it. Fifteen percent. Fifteen out of every hundred people that shoot themselves don’t die.

I will not be one of them.

The fuzziness weighs a bit heavier now, and I’m a tad slower grabbing my phone when the next text message comes in.

“You’re starting to scare me. Where are you?”

A few minutes later, the phone rings. Billy Boyd’s voice, singing “The Last Goodbye” from The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies reaches my ears. The song is appropriate, and more than a little ironic. Needless to say, I don’t answer the call. Besides, by the time James gets around to acting on his uneasiness, it’ll be too late.

Setting both the gun and the phone back on the nightstand, I cross to my desk once again. Opening the browser on my computer, I pull up Netflix and turn on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. It’s the finale of season two, where Izzy snips Denny’s LVAD. I don’t know why it’s my favorite episode, because it’s depressing as hell. I can’t ever get through it without crying, even after ten years and God knows how many viewings.

But watching anything that isn’t depressing seems wrong; there’s something off about killing yourself while watching something that at one point would have made you laugh. As the show goes on, I down a couple more pills.

Suddenly, I want a beer. Which is weird, because I don’t drink beer. But I feel like I ought to have one—a celebratory toast to my life, as it were, in spite of how fucked up it is. I stand and head for the door. I’m pretty sure there’s a few in the fridge. I have no idea how old they are; Rick brought them with one of the last times he stayed over, and that was months ago. Whatever. They’ll work.

I stumble into the kitchen. The meds have kicked in. I’m a touch unsteady on my feet. Doesn’t matter. Once I get back to my room I have a feeling I won’t be getting back up again. I open the fridge, peer inside. I shove the milk carton and some yogurt to the side.

There! Three bottles of Shiner Bock, with their mustard yellow labels bearing a ram’s head. I pull one out, let the fridge door swing closed. I need a bottle opener. I spin in a slow circle, my mind hazy. Opening drawers at random, I finally find one with the rest of my utensils. I put it to the cap, wrench up. The opener slips.

“Shit!”

I’ve sliced my finger open. It’s bleeding, but I don’t really feel it. I should probably rinse it off and slap a bandage on it, but what’s the point, really? Setting the beer on the counter I try again. This time the cap pops off, and I take a swig.

My stomach roils. How did Rick ever drink this shit? In spite of the nausea, I bring the bottle back to my lips. After another sip or two, I head back to my room. Passing the bathroom, I pause. I think I’ll pee now. Maybe then I won’t wet myself so badly when I die. That happens, you know. When you die your bowels go lax and anything that’s in there comes out. They never seem to mention that on the television shows. Dead bodies on screen, though grotesque, tend to be unusually clean. God forbid the public be forced to face reality.

I slide my pants off and collapse onto the toilet.

Reality’s ugly. That’s why they never depict it on-screen. Because no one wants to watch something that hits too close to home.

I listen to the steady stream of urine, then fumble with the roll of toilet paper. It takes three or four tries before I manage to get a decent handful. I wipe, rise, flush. I don’t bother putting my pants back on. Too much effort. Besides, I won’t be needing them where I’m going—wherever that is.

I make it back to my bedroom. My vision’s fuzzy. I know I shouldn’t put my head down, but I’m so tired. I’ll only rest for a minute or two. Then I’ll get back to business.

My head hits the pillow. Shapes swirl in front of my eyes. The sound of Meredith and Christina’s voices morph and shift. The walls melt away …

“—your fault! You weren’t watching him enough! If you’d paid better attention, this wouldn’t have happened!”

“That’s not fair, Mom! I did—”

“You didn’t! I asked so little of you. All I needed you to do was keep an eye on him, make sure he took his meds, make sure he ate.”

“I did all that—”

“It really wasn’t that much to ask. You dropped out of school, then you lost your job. It was the least you could do in return for my putting you up.”

“Putting me up? This is my home, too, Mom, it’s—”

“You should have been out of here forever ago! You’re twenty-two years old, dammit! I should have put my foot down and made you find your own place. I should have known you weren’t responsible enough to handle your father. I should have just hired a nurse and been done with it.”

“Mom, please! You didn’t need a nurse, and I did watch him. Dad was sick! He was sick, and this was always going to happen. You know that. The doctor said—”

“It didn’t have to happen now. He could have had another ten years. Maybe more. But because of you, he’s dead. You killed him. You killed your father!”

“No! God, please Mom, don’t say that! I didn’t. I never wanted this to happen. I loved him, Mom, just like you!”

“Get out!”

The scene shifts, and he’s there, feet up in his recliner. I stand beside him, a glass full of water in one hand and a collection of pills in the other.

“Hey Daddy, how you doing?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah? You feeling alright?”

“Yeah. I’m feeling pretty good, actually.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. Here. It’s time for your meds.”

“Yep. Seems to be about that time, doesn’t it?”

He tosses the pills in, takes a drink, swallows, and then wipes his hand across his mouth.

“I need to go to the store later. That okay?”

“Sure, Dad. Just let me know when, and I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Sure thing. And you’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. At ten, I think.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure I’m ready to go.”

“Sounds good. You got any plans for tonight? You going out with Rick or anything like that?”

“Rick and I broke up, Dad. Remember?”

“You did? Oh, yeah, that’s right. I remember now. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“No problem.”

“Well, he’s an asshole. And so is any guy who thinks my baby’s not good enough for him.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

His recliner twists and contorts, flattening into a rectangular box lined in a light navy satin. He’s lying inside. His eyes are closed, and his face is covered in a thin sheet of make-up. His hands are crossed above his navel, stiff and cold.

“What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

“He’s my father.”

“Yes. He is. And it’s your fault he’s dead.”

“Mom, please, don’t make a scene here. Dad wouldn’t want it.”

“Don’t lecture me about what your father would have wanted. Your father would have wanted to live. He would have wanted to stay here, with me.”

“We all want to stay here, Mom. For as long as we can. But we don’t always get to make that choice.”

“No, we don’t. And in this case, you made it for him.”

“Stop this.”

“You weren’t watching him.”

“Mom—”

“You left him alone.”

“It was an accident—”

“You killed him!”

The slap catches me off-guard, the sharp crack echoing in the quiet room. The murmured chatter dies. Pairs of shocked eyes all shoot in our direction. I lift my hand to my burning cheek, unshed tears stinging my eyes. I look for her, but she’s not in front of me anymore. Now she’s sitting next to me, her hand gripping mine. Her eyes brim with tears of her own.

“You’re sure, doctor?”

“Yes. I’m very sorry.”

“But, Alzheimer’s ... He won’t be able to work. He won’t be able to … How will he …? Oh God, what are we supposed to do?

“Right now his condition isn’t terribly advanced, but it will worsen over time, and unfortunately, there’s no way to stop the deterioration of his mind. We just haven’t progressed that far. For now, he’ll probably be lucid more often than not, but as time goes on, he will have longer and more frequent periods of dementia. The pattern of those periods may also fluctuate; at times he may remember who you are, but not where he is. At other times he may think you’re someone else, or not know you at all. Most likely he will experience episodes where he has lost track of time and is reliving something that has happened in his past. The most important thing for you both to remember is to try and keep him as calm as possible. If he sees you getting frustrated or upset, or if you get overly flustered trying to convince him of something, it will only make his situation worse. His sense of reality is going to shift exceptionally, possibly from day to day.”

“So we won’t know when we wake up each morning how he might be.”

“That’s true. His daily reality continually shift as the disease accelerates. Eventually, however, it is my belief that he will reach a state where he will no longer remember anything of his current life. His moments of lucidity will be extremely rare, if they happen at all.”

“Oh, God!”

“I’m sorry. The nature of Alzheimer’s is cruel. It is not an easy disease to handle. I don’t like having to suggest it, but you might want to consider putting him in a home where he can receive professional care.”

“No, I don’t want to do that.”

“Mrs. Fowler, I understand you want to do what’s best for him, but—”

“I’m not going to put him in a home! He’d feel so betrayed by that, so hurt! I can’t do that to him, I can’t!”

“Mrs. Fowler—”

“NO!”

For the first time since the doctor uttered the word “Alzheimer’s,” I speak up.

“I’ll watch him.”

They both look at me.

“What?”

“I’ll look after him, Mom. I’ll be Dad’s caretaker.”

“But...what about school?”

“I can finish school anytime. This is more important. Besides, it’ll be good practice.”

“And your job?”

“I’ll manage. And if it gets to be too much, I’ll ask for a leave of absence. Or I’ll quit. Whatever it takes. I know putting Dad in a home would kill you, and you’ve got enough to worry about. So don’t. I’ll stay with him. I’ll take care of him, for as long as I can.”

“You’ll stay with him?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll keep him safe?”

“I promise, Mom.”

She looks at the doctor, an eyebrow raised in question. He shrugs, then leans forward and rests his folded hands on his desk.

“I see no issue with it for now. But please understand that a time may come where it will be best for him to have professional care.”

“I understand, Doctor. You’ll excuse me, though, for praying that day never comes.”

We leave the room hand-in-hand and head for the hospital stairs. Reaching the top, I’m suddenly alone, and when I look down, my father is crumpled in a heap at the bottom.

“Dad? Daddy!”

I race down the stairs, falling to my knees at his side.

“God, no! Dad!”

I feel for a pulse. There isn’t one.

“No, no, no! Daddy, please!”

Shaking, I yank my phone from my pocket. It clatters to the floor. I pick it up, manage to punch in three digits. I don’t remember speaking. But within minutes, I hear sirens. I watch, frozen, as paramedics rush past me. Muttered phrases slip through my ears, but don’t truly register. Broken neck. Dead on arrival. Nothing can be done.

“Ma’am? Ma’am. Do you know what happened? Ma’am!”

“He must have fallen. I don’t know. He’s not supposed to be upstairs. What was he doing upstairs?”

My mother’s voice blends with my own.

“What was he doing upstairs? What were you doing upstairs?”

“I don’t know, Mom. He must have tried to follow me, but I don’t know why. I was only up there for a second, I—”

“Why were you up there at all?”

“He wanted you guys’ wedding afghan. He kept asking for it, saying he needed it. He was getting agitated, and I couldn’t get him redirected. He kept trying to get up, telling me he was going to go find it. I told him I would go get it for him if he would just stay put. I knew where it was, it would only take me a second to run upstairs and get it from the hope chest. I made him promise he would stay where he was, and he did. He promised.”

“You know you can’t trust him. The doctor told us that!”

“I know, Mom! But I was only gone a minute. I don’t even know how he got up the stairs that fast. I was just closing the hope chest and getting ready to come back down when I heard the crash. It was only a minute, I swear.”

“You shouldn’t have gone. You shouldn’t have left him alone!”

“It was the only thing I could think to do. I didn’t think it would hurt anything.”

“Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you!? You killed him!”

“I killed him.”

My words are slurred. My face and the pillow beneath are soaked with tears. My phone rings again, then pings. And pings again. And once more.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Answer me, dammit!”

“If I don’t hear from you in the next five minutes, I’m coming over.”

So that’s it. I’m out of time. James lives about fifteen minutes away, which gives me about a twenty minute window. Not a lot of time, but enough.

It takes three attempts, but I eventually manage to sit up. I reach for the pill bottle. I struggle with the cap, fighting to add enough pressure to get it to twist. Finally it comes off and lands on the carpet with a soft thud. I raise my shaking arm, bring the bottle to my mouth, and pour the rest of the pills in. I look around for the beer. It’s gone, and I wonder if I left it in the bathroom. I must have. So I grab the water, now tepid, and gulp it down. As I swallow, the glass slips from my fingers and falls to the floor. The remaining water splashes and seeps into the carpet.

Next, I rip the package of razors open. It’s difficult, the hydrocodone is quickly taking hold. Honestly, the meds are probably enough. But if James finds me passed out on painkillers, there’s a chance they’ll pump my stomach and revive me. I can’t allow that to happen.

I drop the first razor, and I’m too lightheaded to try and pick it up, so I yank the next one from the package. Slipping the guard off, I lay the blade along the skin of my wrist and jerk, making a swift, jagged, horizontal cut. Something whispers to me that I should have cut vertically. The artery lies vertically beneath the skin. I know that. My textbooks told me so. Then again, I don’t want to bleed out so fast I can’t finish what I’ve started. I switch the razor to my other hand and make another clumsy slice.

Blood flows down my hands, oozing over my fingers, and pooling on my bed. Nothing hurts anymore, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I smile.

I should be scared. I’m dying, after all. But all I feel is a sense of relief. The pain is gone; I don’t have to live with it anymore. I can finally be at peace.

My vision is growing black, and I know I’m on the edge of losing consciousness. Reaching out, I clasp the Glock and hug it close to my chest.

“I’m coming, Dad.”

All of a sudden, I’m five years old, and he’s there. I’m standing on his feet, raised up on my toes, and we’re dancing. With a laugh, he swings me up into his arms and spins. Then he plants a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek, and I giggle.

Raising his gun, I put it to my temple. Covered in blood, it’s slippery in my grasp, so I tighten my hold. My breath is shallow; focusing one last time, I suck in a deep breath.

Below me, I hear a frantic pounding on the front door, along with muffled shouts. Floating above the noise, a quiet whisper tickles my ear.

“I’m waiting for you, sweetheart.”

I grin and pull the trigger.